Friday, March 22, 2013

Only One Regret

With Samuel Bean’s high school graduation occurring in the
aftermath of what was then dubbed the Great War, the Oakland Tribune was quite ready to characterize
Sam’s response to the draft as if it were an echo of those famous words
attributed to the American Patriot, Nathan Hale. Among the accolades poured
upon Sam in the May 11, 1919, article leading up to the graduation ceremonies,
the Tribune observed:

“Sammy” Bean has only
one regret in life. And that is that he was not able to fight for his country.
His name was the first one called in Alameda
county during the first draft and twice he was summoned for physical
examination. Each visit resulted in the [keenest] disappointment to him.

Revisiting that actual Tribune report just after the draft’s first drawing, we see the article providing what
was then the colloquial term for Sam’s malady:

Samuel W. Bean, the
second man drawn, is disqualified physically from serving. He is deaf, dumb and
blind.

Of course, since we know the rest of this saga, it’s quite
obvious that Sam was not “dumb” in that era’s sense of the word, for he not
only recited poetry—including his own—before public audiences, but later
embarked on a speaking tour to promote his writings.

He was, however, disqualified from military service—as one
would expect. The Alameda
County draft board, in
addition to having to deal with the “muchly married” situation noted in
yesterday’s post, reported to the Tribune
on August 16 that of the seventy-five names drawn, they were obliged to
disqualify twelve men. Of those twelve names listed in the article, the very
last name belonged to Sam Bean.

Remembering the skeptical note included on Sam’s draft registration card—“seems to be deaf
and blind”—it appears, at this point, there was no doubt of the medical
conclusion. The draft board officials must have gotten over any residual
apprehensions of having been duped by yet another draft dodger.

Sam, however, had an entirely different take on the
matter, according to his words quoted by the Oakland Tribune
right after his name was pulled in the draft.

When he learned from members of his family
that he had been drawn he wrote: “I am mighty sorry that I cannot go and help
whip the Kaiser.”

Admittedly, Iggy, those are brave "fighting words"--however, keeping in mind that, without someone else telling him what was happening, Sam had no way of knowing what was going on in the world. It wasn't like he could absorb the news by osmosis. I suspect he was merely adopting the attitude of whichever messenger was providing him with the reports.

Since Sam had such close relationship with the teachers at his school--as well as a paying job via governmental contract of a military type--I imagine his news sources were very one-sided. A different sort of censorship, but that's what it basically ended up being. Of course, in the context of the nationalistic fervor of the time, he was in plenty of company with an attitude like that.

I think that was pretty much a widespread attitude at the time. Well, and couple that with Sam's family's propensity to have some rather strong attitudes about things...remember, this is the family with head-strong sister Leona and mama-bear Ella.

I didn't realize the draft board might have thought they were being duped. Do you think it's ironic that Sam had a patriotic fervor without the ability to fight, whereas with others called it may have been exactly the reverse?

Mariann, I think Iggy found an article about it a while back. They didn't call them draft dodgers then, if I recall...something like "slackers." On the other hand, it was interesting to see how the quota system worked. Evidently, cities like Portland had enough young men "rarin' to go" that they didn't need to participate in the first draw of the draft.

In Sam's case, though, I think one reason he wore the dark glasses is that one eye was damaged badly enough to warrant removal of the eye, itself. You'd think someone would see that and figure it out.

About Me

It is my contention that, after a lifetime, one of the greatest needs people have is to be remembered. They want to know: have I made a difference?
I write because I can't keep for myself the gifts others have entrusted to me. Through what I've already been given--though not forgetting those to whom I must pass this along--from family I receive my heritage; through family I leave a legacy. With family I weave a tapestry. These are my strands.